State of the Union

Don’t ask where Wayne is… Okay, ask.

Wayne’s in the county jail. Yep. Wayne watched the State of the Union. He saw Obama up there, a tan Frank Sinatra, weaving his skinny frame down the aisle, winsome, buoyant, lithe as a little lad.

And then, when he began to speak, when all the women in the western world were no doubt swooning, Wayne lost all heart. The little lad did not go away. He only grew into a visionary adolescent – a smart adolescent, an energetic, enthusiastic, sexy, class-president adolescent putting on a show for you. Because he wants to bring you along on his happy tour of your country. He wants you to see what he sees, and you want to see it too, because then you can smile like him, and relax, because everything is okay. Better than okay.

Jobs are going up (in smoke), everybody’s going to be going to college (so they won’t be counted as unemployed, and the teachers’ union gets more dues), people are getting health insurance (but not as many as are losing theirs), and the stock market’s on a roll (the “Occupy” president loves Wall Street.)

One lie after another. All styles of lying. Half-truths, exaggerations, faulty reasoning, misleading statements, disguising of evil intents, prejudiced information, compliant statistics, winks, nods, tones of voice, false data, elbows in the rib… all just so you’ll understand what he wants you to understand. And no more.

He tosses a bone to Boner, poor guy, sitting there in back of him, with his green tie. Not red, oh no. Red’s for Republicans. Not even purple. That’s for bi-partisanship. No. Green. Green for co-operation with the environment, green for embracing new technology, green for just plain nice. You want to know what it really stands for, what Boner is really saying? He’s green with envy. Biden and Barack… they’re both wearing bright blue ties. Uplifting blue. No-two-ways-about-it blue. Boner’s is sickroom green.

Barack tells us that women are only getting 77 cents to the men’s dollar for the same job. Wayne is explaining loudly to the TV that it’s old data they’re using. And even back then it wasn’t true; it’s not the same job if you take time off to have a baby, take time off when a kid is sick.

But Wayne, wait! Obama’s going to take care of that. He’s going to give not only women time off, but men time off to take care of their kids. That way nobody loses. “Except you,” Wayne yells to the walls, “you in the audience out there, because you are the ones who pay for the maternity leave. You’re the ones who are going to pay for everything!”

He has to talk to somebody, and there’s only one person. He calls and gets a message. “Brit Brown is not here.” Simple and to the point. Like her. He hasn’t tried to even talk to her since Steve materialized next to her on that disastrous day. How can he get involved with his son’s girlfriend? But is she his girlfriend? He’s never seen him with his arm around her; they sure as hell don’t act like love birds, but he always seems to be with her.

Really? How does Wayne know? Well, he’s taken to frequenting the student lounge with Melissa – before her class, or when he’s waiting to pick her up. By the way, he’s back in the house now, but with his own bedroom – Steve’s. Steve has moved down to the basement to get away from the action upstairs. And Caesar is living at the winery, where he is wined and dined by Ann of the Caftan.

The phone has been no help to Wayne. The television is still on. He goes back to it. Obama suddenly turns dark and furious. No more Mr. Nice Guy… more like the devil, and you’d better watch out. He’s talking about opposition in the House. The people who won’t let anything good happen in America. Republicans – the Enemy!

When the big O gets on to all the things he’s going to do even if Congress doesn’t want it, Wayne stands up and yells, “What happened to the voice of the people? They’re called our representatives because they’re elected to represent our views.” But, he thinks, they don’t anymore; the Democrats might, but the Republicans are in bed with them. They’re planning to build a new house together – a big mansion that will hold all of them. And they won’t argue about money; they can plunder enough for all.

I notice you’re looking around. Melissa is not here. She’s watching with the women. Our three wanted to see their prince on the big screen. Word got around, and a coven has convened at the winery. Forty ladies are at the Obama orgy, sitting on bar stools, at little tables, at the big board, sipping Winter White, enjoying a night out with the girls, and their guy. Except… who’s that bending over one of the little tables? It looks like a waiter. Yes, that’s what it is. They hired a waiter for the State of the Union? Not exactly. He’s a volunteer. It’s Caesar. Quite a coup. Their own handsome Obamakin.

Pre-K for everybody! Hooray! The ladies are all clapping. What they’re thinking is, let’s whip those minorities into shape. Our kids are going to live with them.

One of the women, a teacher, whispers to her neighbor, “You know, they did a study, and it turns out it didn’t make any difference… kids were no better off if they went to Pre-K. It damps out if you don’t keep it up.” She nods vigorously. Her neighbor turns back to the screen, and her momentary frown returns to its beatific smile.

Obama says he wants all kids to have the same chance that he and Michelle had. Caesar is pouring wine for four of his charges, and says, in a low voice, for them, but speaking to Obama, “Yeah, man, how about giving them all the chance that your kids have – how about letting the kids in D.C. have vouchers?” And he’s off to the next table, as though he was just muttering to himself.

Back in his living room, Wayne is yelling, “He doesn’t care about the kids. The money won’t go for them. It’s just a scam to get more union members and more union dues.” And to himself, “to indoctrinate the tykes – less family, more government brainwashing.”

When the president says his two paragraphs on immigration, he never mentions illegals. It sounds like he’s talking about the old-fashioned kind of legal immigrants, not people who broke the law to get here.

He doesn’t say the word “fracking”, either, and this time it’s because he doesn’t want the environmentally religious left to know that when he says we’re switching our cars and trucks over from foreign oil to American natural gas, that means FRACKING.

And global warming? Our scientist-in-chief has declared climate change a fact. Of course – the ice age has been winding down for 10,000 years – but our miniscule tinkerings with CO₂ emissions from power plants is a joke. When are the Liberals, freezing all up and down the east coast, covered with snow in Georgia, where they never saw a snowplow… when are they going to wake up and realize there’s a global warming hoax. He answers himself… “When hell freezes over!” And doubles up laughing. He has now become hysterical. Tears are falling from his eyes.

And he’s out the door. And into his car. He puts on the radio, so Obama can goad him on, lying once again, this time about Iran, who is going to give up the first stages of building a bomb… And why? Because they’re already at the last stage! And he promises to veto any bill that gets in Iran’s way – no more sanctions on his new friends.

He’s driving faster than he should, but he’s racing Obama, who is going to kill him, trying to make himself sound like an American. Like a Republican. Hard work. Opportunity. All the things he’s made disappear.

So folks, here’s what happened. He didn’t have Brittany Brown’s address. He had the address where he’d once dropped Steve off to see her. Brittany lives… well, you’ll find out later. The point is, she doesn’t live in this split-level house in the middle of a development, in front of which Wayne is standing, pressing on the doorbell.

Who does live here? A friend of Brittany’s who is steering clear of an abusive husband. In fact, there’s a court order out on the husband. He is not supposed to go within 100 yards of his wife, who is upstairs now, besotted by Obama, and hears the ringing, which has turned to pounding on the door. She’s used to this. It happens all the time. She calls 911 to come and remove her husband.

They come. And they take away Wayne, who has left his house without his wallet, has no ID, and who, if he doesn’t go quietly is going to be booked for resisting arrest and grand theft auto, as well as defying the court order.

They aren’t listening to Obama in the police car, so he misses the end of the speech where the injured war hero receives the first honest applause of the night.

But we’re not going to stick with Wayne. That’s above and beyond the call.

Not everybody is so excitable. Not everybody feels it necessary to stand up for what he believes in. For some people, it’s enough to analyze. So let’s check in with our analyst, Dr. Wise.

The doctor is TIVOing the speech. He’s not in the mood. He’s depressed. He can’t understand why the women are falling all over Wayne. He’s got no savoir-faire. No polish. Not bad looking, but he’s getting a little worn, hair’s a bit thin on top… still, he’s got two women, and Wise has got none.

Actually, he likes Wayne, just because of his excitability. He thinks it’s sad that he’s so obsessed with how Obama is secretly ruining America, that he’s completely blind to how he alone is the source of all the ruin in his own life.

So funny that he shut up, gathered his self-control, and his life immediately got objectively better in every conceivable way. For one thing, the women came crawling. For another, he could stop straining his brain and his vocal cords.

So now, he’s jumped ship, run away from bliss in order to wreak havoc on more lives. (And the good doctor doesn’t even know that at this moment Wayne is in custody.)

Dr. Wise goes on, to his imaginary patient: “Wayne your problem is not with your stars, or the current occupant of the White House, it is with you.”

Meanwhile, he thinks, am I going to get any? Wayne is catnip to these foxy cats or catty foxes (Wise’s brain is always burning) and they’re just bored with an analytical, wise, doctor.

He starts to get down on himself, and he wonders if maybe, now that Wayne has snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, he, the good doctor, can swoop in for a pity fuck. Swallow your pride, and act fast, he says to himself. Maybe once they let him into their beds, one of these women will figure out that he’s really not so different from Wayne. Not crazy, obviously. And not political. He’s got a real job. He’s definitely going to be more appreciative than Wayne has been lately.

Let’s take up Dr. Wise’s cause and consider Caftan Ann. Nobody notices Ann because she’s married to a faithful man, she’s always working, she’s nice to everybody… in other words, she’s boring. And she knows it, and is beginning to not like it. As we saw New Year’s Eve, when she appeared in lobster red, with hair to match.

Ann is a worrier. Her most recent worry had been health care, but she worked diligently, and has come up with a policy, way more expensive than the one she had before, but a bit different. Her shrink is not on the plan – he told her she could continue for cash – but Dr. Wise is. She can, if she chooses and he accepts her, become his patient. Dr. Wise does not yet know it, but she so chooses.

Let’s see who’s not watching, or listening, or caring about Obama and what he claims to be the state of the Union.

Billy the Kid came to the winery with Doreen, but only to get a ride to see Natalie. The two of them are getting cozy over a bong. Big difference in their ages, five years, but what the hell, she’s going to do it. He’s cute; he can hold his smoke; they see eye to eye about the important things in life. And he? What the hell… you think he’s nuts? He’ll take it, and be damn glad of it, and give thanks to Obama who has brought them both to this place. It’s an ill wind indeed that blows nobody any good.

Rick Zappata’s listening in headphones and playing drums to Obama’s rhythms. There are some things he likes, like the ten-ten minimum wage. And that My-R-A retirement savings plan might be a good thing.

But he doesn’t like throwing blame around when you’re the guy in charge. The rosy representation is not the way Rick sees the state of the union. Isn’t there a famous Marx brothers line: “Who you gonna believe, me or your own eyes?”

Professor Monroe is following the speech at home, alone, with a glass of wine, and he is angry as hell. What’s this talk about? Obama sounds like a goddam Republican. Jobs, jobs, jobs… Trying to squeeze them out of the private sector. To hell with the private sector. Let the government give out the jobs. It worked with Roosevelt; it would work now.

Put the illegals to work on roads. They use them, they got here on them, let them build them. Pay them a decent wage and keep them out of the hands of rich Republicans, who want to treat them like slaves on their plantations.

And all this talk about equal opportunity. Everybody knows you won’t have equal opportunity until the government makes it so. The government could run the whole show more fairly than these greedy wealthy corporate bigwigs. Obama is nothing but Bush Lite. If only we had a real progressive who delivered on his promises.

Steve and Brittany – the only ones unaccounted for tonight. There they are, watching in the student lounge, drinking coffee, and playing with their phones. Brittany picks up her message from Wayne. She calls him back. Too late, Brit, they’ve taken his phone. And his belt, and his shoes. He’s in a holding cell. But don’t worry; he’s got company. An illegal who was on his way home from hard work that Americans won’t do. He’s been building a stone wall for some rich guy and was picked up for hitch-hiking. He, too, has no ID.

And with that, we will turn off the lights, and let everybody go to their sweet dreams or nightmares.